It isn't about what's under the kitchen sink

Confession.

I am by nature a tidy, clutter free person.Right now my house is serial killer clean.The laundry is done.The taxes are done.I’ve taken care of all the IRA stuff and paid the bills for the month.We were out of SOS scrub pads so I made a special trip to the store.

It wasn’t until I was cleaning the cabinet under the kitchen sink when it occurred to me that I was nervous about my surgery.So I stomped through a puddle in the driveway, left muddy prints on my pristine floor and LEFT THE HOUSE.

Sheesyh.

I did have One Final Moment.Mr. W was sound asleep when I poked him.

“Promise me that you’ll cremate me and stash me in a Chock Full O Nuts can. Then wing me in the nearest dumpster.”

“I promise,” he told me.This is something I really am serious about.If he spends any money on my funeral I will haunt him, not in the fun way, forever.

“I would want you to get married again.”

This made him sigh loudly and roll over to face me.“Have you picked out the person?”

“Cindy Carpolochi,” I told him.Mr. Wonderful worked with her maybe 18 years ago.“She was really smart, and she wanted to have a husband and family.She’d be good to you.You only have to wait six weeks.”

Mr. W pulled my pillow out from under my head, laid it gently over my face and said “ok”.We both promptly fell asleep.

I was dropping him off at metro, cranky, per usual early morning when he told me “Six weeks would be May.”